


The Properties of Leeches

by oudeteron



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil
Genre: Cheating, Lab Sex, M/M, all views are strictly those of the characters not mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oudeteron/pseuds/oudeteron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birkin is stressed. Wesker is not one to simply watch. As his colleague sinks deeper into overwork, unfinished business takes the spotlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Properties of Leeches

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a stand-alone, but can also be read as a very loose sequel to [On a Limited Time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/235242). I did what I could for the timeline here to make sense given the rambling RE canon but, in case there are still holes, at least it is an opportunity for Birkin and Wesker to be entertainingly passive-aggressive (and perhaps even give a damn about each other on the side).
> 
> \--  
>  **Additional note as of 2017:** I first wrote this in 2009, and didn't really reread when I archived it on AO3. Today I wouldn't have taken the stupidly common route of totally dismissing Birkin's canon relationship and family just to be able to write him two-timing Annette with Wesker - which is what it is, cheating. So please take that part with a grain of salt, because while I probably wouldn't need to rewrite the fic that much, I no longer think you have to demonize the women who are "in the way" of your m/m ship. It was a really horrible habit everyone seemed to have in the 00s to make their ship seem more legit, which it doesn't do anyway!  
>  On that note, please go read [cherrytruck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytruck)'s RE fics as they're up to date, much more balanced and the characterization is excellent!!

Albert Wesker stands by the window, using the nature as a backdrop for his thoughts. The room is silent, but there are footsteps drifting from the corridor beyond, progressing quickly towards him. When the door swings open, he has already expected it.

“Hello, William,” he greets the young man calmly, surveying him through his sunglasses. “Congratulations on your engagement.” Still calm, noncommittal.

“Thank you.” The newcomer averts his eyes, as though he expected more than that, and that “more” possibly on the side of a swift verbal lashing. “So . . . this is it?”

“I suppose,” Wesker intones, “it must be if you say so.” He leaves the “William” to himself this time. They can be Wesker and Birkin now.

Now Birkin looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Albert, I value your friendship. I do think, however, that we should make it just that.”

Wesker takes off his glasses and gives him an unobstructed look. “Yes. Is there anything else I should be aware of at this time?”

To that, Birkin is suddenly in a hurry. They shake hands, and before long Wesker is alone in the room again. The large window is awash in sunlight. The next thing he sees is a young couple embracing down below, oddly reminiscent of a snapshot out of some catalogue. It’s starting to show that the woman is pregnant.

“Oh, Birkin,” Wesker sighs wearily. “You idiot.”

*

There are many hang-ups with their most extensive project. In a business like theirs, determined to do their best though they are, there is always a chance of difficulties arising—hitting a block with the research, an unexpected outbreak, unpredictable reactions of test subjects and, last but not least, the intricacies of background politics and rivalries. Wesker has experience with all of them, although his resolve not to waste his potential or his time mostly prevents him from dwelling on past hardships. On the whole, he is the more collected half of the illustrious researcher duo Wesker—Birkin.

His partner, on the other hand, has a brilliant mind but suffers from being unstable. Wesker has watched him stumble as one problem after another hit their lengthy, top secret T-Virus project in the past few weeks: first Birkin’s patience, then his efficiency, and finally his nerves began to crumble under the pressure. It was not the first time outside circumstances affected him so greatly. No use reminding the fool that more problems than usual could only be expected with such an exhausting task as they were pursuing. No use telling him, either, that he was doing his part with dedication as always and whatever issues there were would have been just as out of his control if he pushed himself past his limit, which Wesker suspected would happen sooner or later. He refrained from saying this, but a semblance of worry gradually overcame him too, causing further needless distraction. And Birkin would hardly take more strain. Just the day before, he became so agitated that he waved a jar with a test substance about carelessly, dropped it, and then they were both grateful for having worked in the spare lab earlier and still wearing protective gear before personnel arrived to sanitize the contaminated area. The incident itself was minor enough, but Wesker was sure it gave Birkin yet another reason to find himself out of sorts without asking the man a single word afterwards.

Now night has blanketed the facility, and almost everyone has left to sleep. Except for Birkin, of course. His coat folded over the back of his chair, he stares at the computer screen as if in trance, muttering sounds that could be either calculations or curses under his breath. His fingers are hammering on the keyboard, his arms almost willfully steady, and his hunched figure looks so wound up that any minute it could snap. This is the sight that greets Wesker as he enters the main lab.

“Birkin.”

Indeed, the seated body springs up with a start. He gives Wesker a look that seems positively uncomprehending at first, then staggers back in relief at the familiar face. “Do you need anything?” he manages at last.

“I could ask you the same question,” Wesker says without malice. He determines this might not be such an unfitting time to use first names, what with them being alone with their work and himself trying to express concern. “Leave it alone, William. Your new result sheets won’t arrive until morning, but I am sure that if you continue, there will be no one here to process them but the computer. Unless you smash it in frustration before it has a chance to, that is.”

It almost seems Birkin might listen, but then he turns to the screen again, though he does not go as far as to sit back down and recommence typing. Wesker is pleasantly surprised he hasn’t shot back a venomous retort as he has been wont to do since the project started chipping off his sanity piece by piece. Although, if Wesker is honest with himself, Birkin’s uncharacteristic tiredness must be stemming not from weeks, but years of passionate effort with hardly a moment’s rest. It must have built up for ages.

“When have you last seen your wife and daughter?” Wesker asks, not having any particular stance on Birkin’s silly family. Of course it would have ended this way. Birkin would never give priority to affection before work, even if it were genuine, and domestic happiness is apparently one best digested in small quantities for him. Wesker suspected as much at the start and is even more convinced now. Unlike Birkin, however, _he_ accepts that he was never meant for ordinary life.

“I haven’t been— it doesn’t matter.” The hesitation is audible in his voice, but Wesker leaves it without comment. Instead, he approaches the standing figure and, driven by some old sentiment, rests his hand on Birkin’s shoulder. No resistance.

“You’re tense,” Wesker remarks but lingers at an arm’s length. “Do you want me to—”

He halts mid-sentence when Birkin suddenly leans back against him with a sigh. “I was going to ask if you wanted a massage,” Wesker says with some amusement. “Birkin, you’re acting worse than when we first met. Don’t tell me all that effort was for nothing.”

To his pleasure, Birkin actually chuckles. Wesker isn’t sure what he’s planning to do reaching for his free hand as well, but is too curious to avoid it. Birkin merely takes and holds it at a slightly uncomfortable angle. Wesker is suddenly aware of his breathing and the other’s warmth against his chest.

“Albert, sometimes I think I have it all wrong. I was happier when we . . .” His words trail off, but his body tenses even more and then he turns around and his hands are on Wesker’s back and tug free his shirt and their hips grind together as if in completion of the sentence.

Wesker is surprised, to say the least, but not against it. In a sense, it proves him correct. He stands steady against Birkin’s near frenzied attempts, waiting for an opening as though in close combat, until he manages to draw Birkin’s face to his and kiss him. He has never experienced his old acquaintance so needy.

“You’re still tense,” he says, but Birkin all but drags him towards the table. There he spins around and dutifully but quickly sweeps the files aside; nothing can even begin to endanger the precious research. Wesker has to smirk at that, although he would have done the same. He tightens his grip around the other’s waist before Birkin has a chance to face him. They stay like this for several long moments, bodies swaying in the beginning of a familiar rhythm.

“You better not start something you can’t finish,” Birkin almost growls. It’s as much of a verbal invitation as anyone’s going to get from him, Wesker knows.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Stepping back for a moment, he searches his trousers for the packet of condoms. When they were young and as innocent as either of them could get, he was reckless enough not to bother, but since Birkin’s involvement with that Annette woman, Wesker has no reason to give him different treatment from anybody else. And indeed there were others after William.

They remember each other. Their shared silhouette flickers in the glow of the screens, imprinted on the darkened room by the light of the “EXIT” signs. Their voices are equally subdued, a ragged mixture of sighs and sharp breaths. The table Birkin is leaning on creaks under their combined weight, rustling the papers haphazardly pushed aside, but it’s not loud enough to be distracting. His unbuttoned shirt falls open.

Wesker moves with purposeful efficiency, not in any mood to tease. He does take care not to hurt Birkin, but this is not the first time and he knows the other’s body well enough to gauge its tolerance. One of his arms snakes round Birkin’s waist, but his other hand glides lower until he has the man trapped in sensations inescapable. Birkin’s gasps rise in volume, his body buckling with the effort not to simply collapse. Now Wesker allows himself to close his eyes, something he never does with another person, so that he can only feel. They may be mostly clothed, but sweat is everywhere. The whole situation is rather absurd. But he continues thrusting with practised swiftness, unrelenting. He knows what Birkin—William—wants and he delivers.

If nothing else, Birkin’s tension is gone completely. Wesker supports him in the afterglow until needed, until they disentangle and make themselves somewhat presentable again. There are no niceties, no more kisses. They do, nevertheless, smile at each other briefly. Something of their old spark has been rekindled.

“Go have a shower,” Wesker tells him, careful for it not to come off as an order, which would not work. “Sleep on it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He rather doubts that random workplace sex might have any lasting effect on Birkin’s composure, but if the aim was to break the vicious cycle of workaholism and unreleased stress that would have eventually spiralled into a mental breakdown, he knows for a fact it has been achieved. For the moment, this is all that matters. That, and he enjoyed providing such help immensely.

As Birkin stands by the door ready to leave, he addresses him again: “Thanks, Albert.”

A conspiratorial glance. “Don’t mention it.”

And Birkin bursts out laughing.


End file.
